The Voice Inside Your Head
by thingsthatmakeme
Summary: It was not as common as it once was, but it was a well-loved theme in many romance films and novels. If your soul had a mate, a match so profound that it connected two people at the deepest level, you could hear their Voice in your head. James Bond heard his Voice for the first time at just 11 years old. Set before and during the events of Skyfall.
1. Chapter 1

James Bond heard his Voice for the first time at just 11 years old. The unusualness of hearing his Voice at such a young age, combined with the devastating loss of his parents just a few months earlier meant that the quiet gurgle of " _maman_ " was passed off as a hallucination by the young boy. No one ever hears their Voice that young.

The month after that, he reassessed this idea when a soft whisper of " _papa_ " woke him one morning. He had a soulmate.

It was not as common as it once was, but it was a well-loved theme in many romance films and novels. If your soul had a mate, a match so profound that it connected two people at the deepest level, you could hear their Voice in your head.

Scientists had gathered and worked to explain the phenomenon into objective chemical signals and chromosomal mutations, desperate to assign reason to that which many claimed as divine intervention. Others viewed the connection as a cosmic event that re-connected a soul that had accidentally split during one reincarnation, attempting to restore balance.

James Bond did not have an opinion on the 'why' or 'how' of his new-found connection, he was just overwhelmed by the thought that he wouldn't be faced with this loneliness any longer. He had a soulmate.

A very young soulmate. Easily ten years his junior. James followed the rapid progression of his Voice's accomplishments – moving quickly from ' _maman'_ and ' _papa'_ to " _non_ ", and " _chat_ " within mere weeks. James decided it was some sort of cruel irony that his Voice was French, and was cycling through the very same first words James' mother had said were _his_ first words. His mother had always wanted him to learn French fluently, and now he wished desperately he had spent more time with her learning. He wished he had more time with her in general.

Each time he felt himself sinking into despair, he'd hear his Voice again, happily pronouncing " _non_!" with childish glee. So he kept on.

-:-

At 13, James Bond was angry. No one else ever heard their Voice until adulthood, and here he was with a _baby_ in his head. Why did he have to have a soulmate who could do nothing for him? Why did he have to be teased with the potential of the perfect best friend, but keep them separate? The small pool of warmth in his chest taunted him as he sat in the Headmaster's chair, receiving a tongue-lashing for the third time this week.

He wasn't supposed to be this lonely with a soulmate.

-:-

At 15, James Bond stood alone before the empty grave of Hannes Oberauser. He'd lost his second father in just four years, and he was _furious_. Where was his soulmate now? He clenched his fists, blinking back tears of equal parts frustration and soul-crushing longing. He was _so alone_. His Voice had progressed over the years, and he barely heard him now. Occasionally, he'd hear his Voice babbling happily about trains and the sky. But nothing useful - nothing to warm the icy chill that had settled over his heart. What were soulmates for, if not to be there when he needed them? Why did he have to listen to a happy, giggly, and loved child as he buried his last chance for a family?

He didn't.

Eyes tracing the newly engraved tombstone, James Bond decided he would no longer listen. He had no soulmate.

So he did all he could to drown out the Voice. It wasn't hard most of the time. For whatever reason, he only heard his Voice every few months – a gleeful giggle, an awed ' _wow'_ , or a quiet whimper of pain. The last had stopped him dead in his tracks, sending a cold trickle of fear down his spine. For the first time in years he floundered around his mind, seeking out more connection with his Voice, needing to know – _are you alright?_

And was promptly punched in the nose. His head shot back, the force of the blow breaking bone, and he shook his head. Blinking back the automatic tears, he focused on his opponent, belatedly chastising himself for losing focus in the middle of a sparring.

"Getch'r head outta' yer' arse, Bond!" his coach snapped, coming to stand before him, tossing a towel into his hands. James wiped at his bloody face in a daze, shaken by the swell of concern and fear that accompanied the small whimper.

"Bond!"

He blinked again to focus on his coach. The man snorted, and then promptly removed his gloves for him. "Hit the showers," he commanded. "An' next time, focus!"

James mentally shook himself, gritting his teeth at his own slip. He turned and stalked off toward the showers, resolutely _not_ thinking about his Voice. He had no soulmate.

-:-

At 17 he graduated and moved on to the Royal Naval College, determined more than ever to occupy his mind with adrenaline and strategy – finding he heard his Voice less when overcome with the thrill of the chase and surge of endorphins. And it was becoming more difficult to tune out his Voice.

The child couldn't be more than 7, and yet the few times Bond heard him, the child was prattling on about maths – _maths_. With honest-to-god _excitement_. English was spoken just as often as French, and the child projected a general feel of inexhaustible curiosity. It was in no way, at all, adorable.

-:-

At 20, he took a year at Sea Service, giving him his first taste of espionage, and he was immediately hooked. Nothing drove away the Voice like the adrenaline-fueled underwater tactical training – the water seeming to drown out the now older Voice, obsessed with creating and inventing. At no more than 10 years old, his Voice shone with intelligence and a thirst for knowledge. It absolutely did _not_ fill him with a glimmer of pride.

He received his big promotion to Naval Intelligence at only 22, an exciting opportunity that he was determined not to waste. He had a goal, and he was damn sure going to reach it. The greatest passion he'd felt, the energy that finally lifted him from his surly downward spiral, was service to his country. He didn't need a family if he could work to protect Queen and Country, and in fact, it worked better that way. He quickly moved up through the ranks, moving first to submarine service, then onto the Special Boat Service, leaving behind a trail of recommendations.

It was late in the evening during the spring of 1993 when it happened. He was free-diving, scouting a location for an assignment, when his Voice uttered a terrible, gut-wrenching, _horrifying_ , cry. Bond jerked to a stop, unable to stop the deep intake of breath as alien feelings of shock, despair, and absolute _terror_ washed over him.

He kicked hard to reach the surface, lungs burning from the sudden intake of cold water, and breached with a gasp.

" _Mamman! Papa! No!"_

His Voice sobbed out the words, pain and loss nearly suffocating Bond. For a moment, alone and bobbing in the waves, James Bond was an eleven-year-old boy standing at his front door listening as a police officer informed him of his parent's deaths. His chest tightened, and for the first time in more years that he could count, he felt his eyes burn with tears.

" _Come back_ ," his Voice whispered, the words breaking. _"Don't leave me_."

 _You're not alone_. If thoughts could whisper, that's what Bond's sounded like. His Voice wouldn't be able to hear him.

He knew, as only a child who had lost his parents could know, that the sudden loneliness was the most crushing feeling in the world. He knew he should say something.

 _You're not alone._

He couldn't. He opened his mouth to form the words of comfort he knew would give _something_ to the grieving boy. And yet.

The cacophony of pain and overwhelming loss seemed to crest in the long minutes Bond waited, treading water and struggling with himself. The feelings ebbed away eventually, leaving James feeling empty and cold. Only his own sadness filling his chest.

He waited minutes that felt like hours, waiting for _something_ , anything really. For the first time in years, he desperately wanted to hear his Voice. Nothing came.

James tried to burry the sudden anger that gripped him, because no one should have such an effect on him. But he could do little to stop the onslaught. He didn't _want_ to feel these things, didn't _want_ to be reminded of his loss.

He recognized the childish, petty part of him that was sadistically glad that his Voice suffered as he did. Misery loves company, and while he knew it wouldn't make things any better, he was glad to know his loss was shared.

Bitter anger fueled him as he swam off toward his small boat, and grim determination spurred his renewed sentiments. He had no soulmate.

-:-

Two years went by and James Bond created a name for himself. Though rarely following standard protocol, Bond finished every job not only in record time, but with strategies that had previously gone overlooked. Each mission brought him the adrenaline high he craved to push away his Voice. His growing Voice.

He could not help but hear the deepening of his Voice's tone, nor the edge of polite aloofness in the crisp, posh accent. Despite his best efforts, his traitorous thoughts strayed at night as he tossed and turned. Where had the bright, giggling child gone? After pushing the Voice away, it seemed that one day his Voice was suddenly older. Where had the childhood gone?

" _Don't you have anything better to do than annoy me?"_

His Voice sounded dry and unimpressed at only 16. On the rare occurrence that Bond could actually hear him, his Voice sounded tightly controlled and cool. Once, during the darkest part of night, Bond contemplated for the first time how _his Voice_ sounded.

 _What do you hear when you hear me?_

A sudden, rather overwhelming thought flooded him then. His own voice was cold and emotionless. The only words his Voice would be able to hear of him would be the efficient, tightly controlled responses to commanders, or else his quick bark of orders to his team. Worse, Bond thought, the honey smooth, sultry words that he used to ensnare his female prey before using them and leaving.

 _What must you think of me?_

It did not matter, he reminded himself gruffly, turning over to lie on his stomach. He had a well-established routine of ignoring his Voice, and a determined resolution to live out his life without ever hearing his Voice with his own ears. He had no soulmate.

 _Not one that would want him._

-:-

After eleven years serving in the Navy, the 28-year-old found himself walking through the doors of MI6, a swagger in his step and a wry smile on his face. This was where he would make a difference. This was where he could best serve his country.

He felt nothing as he checked the 'NO' box next to the question, "Do you have a Voice?" After all, he had no soulmate.

Bond gritted his teeth and muddled through the seemingly endless menial tasks assigned to lower-level agents, mind ever focused on the end goal. Double-oh status.

Working behind a desk meant more than just mind-numbing, dull tasks, however. It meant no heart-pumping distractions from his Voice.

He could hear him ever day now, the crisp accent filling his head while Bond gripped his pen with crushing strength.

" _If you'd rather it be done in a week instead of a day, then by all means, continue."_

" _That level of malware is simply not going to achieve what you want, if you'd just…"_

His Voice was skilled in computers, that much Bond could understand. He figured the boy worked in computer securities, as he often would bemoan the anti-virus technology he had to work with. He sounded like a right little shit.

" _One cup of Earl Grey, please. Dash of milk, no sugar."_

Bond snorted. Without fail, his Voice would order tea in the mid afternoon, and occasionally, he'd hear a very soft sigh of contentment. It was not adorable in the least.

At the end of a long day, Bond leaned back in his chair to stretch his arms. He _hated_ desk work.

" _Stop."_

Bond froze mid-stretch.

A slight prickling of fear drifted into his mind, but so subtle, Bond doubted he'd have noticed had he not been silent.

" _Let go."_

Bond straightened in his chair, senses on high-alert as he felt the sliver of fear increase almost minutely. It was almost as if it was being pushed down by something, muted somehow.

He strained to hear more, anything, reaching out blindly to that part of his mind he'd spent a decade pushing to the side. His efforts were met with little success, only serving to sharpen the tang of fear.

Then abruptly, resignation. That did not stay for long either, despite Bond's desperate attempts to seek out more emotion or words from his Voice. He was suddenly very afraid.

"Tell me what's wrong," he growled into the empty office, feeling foolish. He didn't know how to do this.

Nothing. Just a dull sense of numbness.

"Where are you?" he tried again, standing despite the utterly uselessness of the action. "What's wrong?"

" _Go away."_

Bond sunk down into his chair. The whispered words were meant for him, he was absolutely sure of it. The prickle of fear had returned, along with a simmering of indignant anger, before smoothing over into bland numbness.

He sat in his office, staring straight ahead for thirty minutes, hoping for _anything_ , but nothing came. _He hates me_ , he thought, surprised at the disappointment he felt at the revelation. _Why shouldn't he? I've pushed him away._

After an hour of silence, both inside the office and inside his mind, Bond stood. Fixing the lapels of his suit, he mentally shook himself, then walked away.

-:-

Thankfully, his superiors agreed with his assessment that he was being wasted pushing paper, and he was promoted to field work. This he could do.

Gradually his Voice faded as Bond took mission after mission, throwing himself into the heat of Afghani deserts, the muddy swamps of Indonesia, and the crowded streets of South America. He travelled and worked with a single-minded determination to protect Queen and Country and climb the ranks, each passing year bringing him closer to Double-oh status.

-:-

At 35, he finally learned French in the blistering heat of Port-au Prince, working to dismantle a human trafficking organization.

"Je trouve qu'il n'y a pas assez de fumee ici. Et si on sortait fumer une clope?" _There's not enough smoke in here, let's go outside._

Bond whispered the admittedly rather clichéd pick-up line into his companion's ear, letting his lips graze the woman's neck before meeting her gaze with his own.

"Tu saurais m'indiquer ou se trouve le vestiaire, cherie?" she replied with a smirk. _Where is the coat check, darling?_

"Vous ne devrez pas votre manteaux où nous allons. Vous ne devrez pas les vêtements, en fait," he purred, his voice husky. _You won't need your coat where we're going. You won't need any clothes, in fact._

As he received a tantalizing arched brow and a quirk of blood red lips, Bond was distracted by the sudden gasp he heard in his head. He froze. There was silence in his head, but he was _sure_ he had heard his Voice.

"Monsieur Bond?"

He blinked, coming out of his mind to meet pretty hazel eyes.

"Je suis désolé," he apologized, giving her a suggestive grin.

They left quickly, and indeed, she needed no clothing when they reached his hotel. Bond whispered the dirtiest things he could think of into the woman's ear as he thrust into her from behind, purring out the silken French words. Not so much for his companion's enjoyment, though indeed it seemed to do the trick, but to test his theory.

Sure enough, mere moments after he'd started his litany of downright filthy French, he heard another small gasp in his head. Bond smirked, feeling somehow like he had won a game he didn't realize he'd been playing.

After sneaking out of the room in the early hours of the morning, Bond contemplated this new thought. His Voice was nearing 22 now, and was clearly no longer a child. He smirked again remembering the quiet intake of breath he'd heard. But then paused.

He'd never heard his Voice during any _intimate_ moments, he realized. Turning on his shower, Bond mulled this over, conceding that there were many times he had been occupied by missions, and he could have simply missed his Voice's first time. There was also the chance that his Voice had yet to partake, how ever strange the thought may be to Bond-there were some who refrained.

He snorted. No soulmate of his would be the kind to refrain.

Bond froze. He hadn't thought of his Voice as his soulmate in over two decades.

 _Stop this_ , he told himself sternly, scrubbing his hair vigorously. _You have no soulmate._

-:-

At the age of 38, James Bond fulfilled his goal in achieving Double-oh status. He then promptly _lost_ his status after destroying an Embassy in Madagascar.

The slip-up wouldn't deter him, though, and M returned his title so that he could chase down the mastermind of a series of organized – and thwarted, thanks to Bond – terrorist attacks.

Le Chiffre was a worthy target, and Bond relished the complexity and high-stake activity that drove his Voice from his mind.

And then Vesper.

He stared into her vibrant dark eyes and how he _wished_ so desperately that _she_ was his soulmate. He threaded his fingers through hers. Reveling in the smoothness compared to his gruff skin, he felt renewed anger toward his Voice.

But then, she betrayed him.

"The bitch is dead," he told M, fighting like hell to keep his tone brusque and businesslike. Inside, he was screaming. Every breath hurt, his chest reduced in size as if Vesper had taken his heart with her into her watery grave. He wanted to scream, he wanted to destroy. More than anything - and absolutely not something he was willing to admit even to himself - he wanted to cry.

He hung up the phone and stared at what was supposed to be one of the most beautiful and romantic cities in the world. Venice seemed to mock him now with its stunning architecture and weathered cobble stone streets. Couples walked hand-in-hand, oblivious to the crushing weight of despair gripping him. He felt _so alone._

" _You're not alone."_

Bond actually startled at the whispered words in his head.

" _I'm still here."_

He tightened his hands into fists, fighting to gain control over his swirling emotions.

"Go away," he growled through clenched teeth, bitter and angry. He didn't want the boy, it wasn't _his_ voice he so desperately wanted to hear. And he hated himself for wanting to hear her traitorous voice. Hated the weakness that love provided him. He should hate _her_ , and yet, he could only hate himself for not being able to.

-:-

Bond continued his work, because that was what he did best. Work drove away the Voice. Killing provided him an outlet for his self-loathing, and sleeping with countless women drove away from the dark spiral of his thoughts, allowing him to fall asleep almost instantly. It worked for him.

He once again lost his Double-oh status after being framed in Bolivia, but even that didn't stop him. The Quantum provided him with ample distraction from everything, his body working past its breaking point and allowing him his coveted dreamless sleep.

Predictably, he regained his title, and M granted him his greatest wish, allowing him to track down Vesper's former lover.

As he tossed Vesper's necklace into the snow, he breathed out a sigh that somehow took with it much of the darkness that had taken root in his chest. He felt lighter.

-:-

Three years passed, and without James noticing it, he heard his Voice more often. More surprising than this sudden realization was the insight that came along with it. He didn't mind it.

His Voice had a smooth cadence of speech that sounded almost elegant. What was once a frustratingly posh accent was now a comforting sound that spoke to his Voice's intelligence and calming disposition.

For the very first time, James wondered what his Voice looked like.

He shut down that train of thought quickly, but it never quite went away.

-:-

At 41 years old, James Bond died.

The sudden burst of pain in his right shoulder pulled a pained grunt from him. Then he fell.

He felt the air forced from his lungs as he hit the water at bone-breaking speeds. His mind was suddenly filled with a loud, desperate cry of _"No!"_

The weight of tranquility settled around him, and he felt himself go limp as the rushing river carried his body along. Darkness fell, accompanied by a litany of quiet pleas, _"No, no, no…"_

He couldn't gather the strength to respond with words, so he hoped his Voice could hear his thoughts.

 _I'm sorry._

-:-

He survived.

James Bond opened his eyes to blinding pain across his entire body.

"Do not move," a voice croaked, raspy with age and disuse. "You are healing."

An old woman came into his view and she gave him a superbly stern and unimpressed stare.

He tried to respond, but winced at the horrendous pain in his throat.

"No speaking, either," she admonished him before turning her back and gathering wet clothes.

"Heal," she said, laying the cloth across his chest, as if she could command his body to her will. Maybe she could.

He let his eyes close, the warm air leaving his pleasantly drowsy.

"Heal, so you can find your Voice."

Her voice was far away as Bond slipped into unconsciousness, his mind not quite sure if she had truly said anything. He fell asleep accompanied by a soft sigh of relief echoing through his mind.

Three weeks later found Bond absolutely sloshed at a rickety bar, surrounded by scantily clad women and sweaty men.

"Another!" he commanded, turning his shot glass and slamming it on the bar top.

" _Very classy,"_ the snide Voice in his head remarked.

"Sod off," he growled as he received yet another shot. He'd lost count at ten.

" _Truly a paradigm of strength and masculinity,"_ his Voice continued, dry as the Sahara desert.

"You're not real," Bond slurred, earning several wide, nervous stares. "Get outta m'head."

The Voice let out an audible sigh. _"Tis my dearest desire, I assure you,"_ he said, a hint of bitterness creeping into the otherwise dry tone. _"Having_ you _in_ my _head is truly horrible."_

Bond snorted, gesturing for one more. The bartender paused for a second before Bond tossed a few notes at him. Another shot was poured.

"Cheers to that, mate," he slurred, tossing back another shot. He stood from his stool and swayed heavily. He managed to make it out to the beach, stumbling along the still sun-warmed sand, before he collapsed.

Eyes closing, he heard a final sigh.

" _What did I do to deserve a soulmate like you?"_

Bond slipped into unconsciousness, but not even the wealth of alcohol flooding his system could prevent the overwhelming wave of self-loathing.

Bright sunlight burning his face woke him in what felt like minutes. Bond sat up slowly, groaning and lowering his head into his hands.

Stuck there on the beach, unable to move for fear of losing the little he had in his stomach, James Bond was finally forced into some introspection.

He'd awoken from near death in the small, dusty hut of an elderly woman. She'd told him of how she found him, floating in the river near her preferred washing spot. After finding a weak pulse and watery breaths, she and several men from the town carried him to her hut, where he had recovered for a week before waking.

He'd thanked her, but refused any more help, desperately desiring to leave the small space.

"Go," she said, shooing him out the door. "Go and find what you seek."

He'd looked over his shoulder at the woman before heading down the beach.

He had then spent the next three weeks drowning out his Voice and his own thoughts in the only way he could – sex and alcohol.

His agency had abandoned him. They'd shot him from the train, not trusting him to finish the job on his own. Then, they hadn't even looked for his body.

Bond thumped a fist into the sand. He'd willingly given his body to serve his country - he truly and deeply felt pride in his work for the Crown. England was the only family he had left, and he would fight for her to his death.

And how had his country repaid him?

He spat down in the sand, hoping to rid himself of the horrible taste in his mouth. He was unsuccessful.

So he drank to ignore the bitter resentment and pain. And he fucked to drive his thoughts away from his Voice.

A day after he'd awoken and left the old woman's house, he'd stopped by a small convenience store.

"Water?" he had croaked, throat on fire, feeling rubbed completely raw. The man had taken pity on him, handing him his own plastic bottle. Bond couldn't have cared less that the water was slightly murky – it was _glorious_.

He had nearly chocked on it, however, when he heard a sharp gasp from inside his mind.

" _You're alive."_

His Voice had sounded hesitant and so very small. Bond had hesitated in taking another sip, mind occupied by the slow swirl of hope that appeared inside his head.

"Thank you," he'd said to the man, handing him back the bottle. The man nodded, and Bond had left.

Conflicted, Bond had walked back toward the river, feeling the burgeoning hope that grew stronger each moment.

For a precious few moments, Bond contemplated the idea of going to him. This boy who had turned into a man without Bond really noticing. The boy who had been in his head for thirty years, but never reaching into his heart.

He had looked down at his tanned, weathered, and scarred hands, noting each imperfection. He'd created a perfect weapon out of his body. He had spent his entire life throwing away that which made him his own person.

If he had a soulmate, the one person in the world who completed him, he had destroyed that.

He wasn't the person he was meant to be. He was now simply a weapon for his country to wield against threats. Whoever was meant to belong to this boy, this calm, soothing, intelligent Voice, it wasn't him. The boy's soulmate did not exist anymore.

 _And he wouldn't be satisfied with what remained._

He had stood, stared into the water that very well should have been his grave, and turned away.

Three weeks later, and here he sat. Somewhere along the coast of the Caribbean, James Bond looked up from the sand, fighting against his massive headache, and stood.

Walking along the beach to his small shack, he rubbed his eyes, trying to push away the growing feelings of doubt and guilt. His Voice had actually shouted at him after that day, three weeks ago. But Bond had resolutely ignored him. He had nothing to give the boy.

One more week passed, Bond's days revolving around the bottom of a bottle, and his nights on top of a woman.

Then, just before sunrise, he awoke to a shout in his head.

He bolted upright, adrenaline pumping away the headache that usually accompanied his hangover, and stood.

" _Everyone, calmly proceed to the emergency exists,"_ his Voice instructed, cool and collected. The only perceptible anxiety was kept hidden, but not from Bond.

"What's happened?" he asked, ignoring the indignant muttering from his slumbering bedmate.

His Voice ignored him. Even the twinge of anxiety was starting to fade, leaving Bond with only his own pounding heart. But Bond knew this trick.

"Do not shut me out," he growled, throwing on his trousers as he left the bedroom. As the years had passed, he realized his Voice had an uncanny ability to hide himself away. In the last year, he'd heard less and less the day-to-day activity of his Voice, only becoming privy to words spoken when the boy experienced extreme emotion. He'd witnessed ecstatic joy, pain, terror, and extreme irritation. And now, his boy was forcing down his anxiety and fear, bottling up the emotion in the hopes that Bond wouldn't hear him.

" _No, go on, I'll stay behind to power down the network and tech."_

His Voice came much more quietly now, mere whispers in the back of his head. Bond paced the beach, fists clenched. He growled at the command. Of bloody _course_ the boy would be noble.

 _He's my soulmate, after all._

Bond shook the thought away. "Talk to me," he barked, using his Commander Voice.

" _Go away."_

It stung. Bond paused his pacing and sat down in the sand. _Fine_ , he thought. If his Voice was hurt, he'd know, he was sure of it. _And what would you do if he_ was _hurt?_ Nothing. He wouldn't be able to do anything.

The thought sent his palms itching and his heart racing.

 _I need to go back._

He sat on the beach until the sun rose, contemplating the crystal blue waves that lapped lightly at his feet. Finally, he rose and moved toward the small restaurant and bar. He'd be able to catch a boat off the island to somewhere he could take out money from one of his accounts, then find a flight back to England.

He grabbed a barstool and signaled for the bar tender. He'd need a few drinks in him before the day began. With one glass of cheap tequila now making its way into his system, Bond turned to the television.

And felt his heart stop.

" _BREAKING NEWS: MI6 TERRORIST ATTACK"_

"…early reports from the scene indicate six dead, many more injured, with victims being evacuated to hospitals within minutes of the explosion."

He shot up from his stool to get closer to the television, heart hammering. The explosion happened at 0900 England time, meaning 0400 for Bond.

0400.

 _You're MI6,_ he thought, mind struggling to wrap around the sheer ridiculousness of the fact. But there it was, staring at him in the face. His Voice worked for MI6. _Buggering shite._

He was going back.


	2. Chapter 2

"Where the hell have you been?"

Bond took another generous sip of M's excellent scotch, relishing the taste he'd almost forgotten after weeks of cheap tequila.

"Enjoying death," he replied dispassionately. He took yet another sip, allowing the alcohol to have a dampening effect on his emotion. He wanted calm and cool, nothing that might allow his boy to hear him. "007 reporting for duty," he continued dryly.

-:-

Six weeks after his 'death', James Bond walked through the door to the new MI6.

"He was able to breach the most secure building in Britain," Tanner explained, moving briskly toward a large iron door. "So we're on war footing now."

They moved through a series of brick tunnels, until coming to an opening.

"Welcome to the new MI6," Tanner said. Bond walked through the brick archway and looked out from their raised position over the main floor. Large stone archways and old brick walls framed the underground room, bustling with people moving from desk to desk, harried looks on their faces.

Bond's eyes roved over the crowd, wondering if his Voice was among them. He'd know, wouldn't he? Stories and tales had been spun around the first meeting of two soulmates. Some believed they were drawn together by an invisible string, ever pulling the two together. Others claimed fate or divine intervention created the perfect stage for the two to meet. For the first time in his life, Bond thought he might actually believe it.

He could remember a movie his mother had made him watch - the main female character was blind except for her soulmate. Her world was dark until he came into the room. "With you, I can see," she had whispered into her lover's ear. "With you, I am complete."

Bond mentally shook himself as he walked down the iron steps. Whatever the silly romance novels said, the one truth was that a single touch was all that was needed. A single touch, and the bond would form.

From there, any number of things could occur. Bond walked through the rows of desks, allowing Tanner's explanations to wash over him as he pondered the potential outcome of meeting his Voice. It wasn't something he'd ever thought he'd experience.

At their first touch, they would bond. Some bonds changed only very little, most made the bonded pair's life easier – often ending their ability to Hear each other. _What a relief that would be_ , he thought dryly.

Occasionally, the ability to Hear would stay the same, sometimes even heightening the partner's ability to communicate. _More control over what he hears would be convenient,_ he thought.

Not all bonds lead to relationships. A soulmate was simply the person who best fit with you. Some bonded pairs were life long friends, completely platonic, never anything romantic between them.

Bond thought back to the night in Port-au Prince when he heard his Voice gasp quietly as he whispered words of desire, possession, and promises. He doubted they would form merely a platonic bond.

Yet still other bonded pairs, the strongest, rarest ones, had devastating effects. There were some partners who could physically _feel_ when the other was injured. If not having their skin actually cut, then the phantom pain of the injury. Bond fought back a chill at the thought. He'd never be allowed out in the field again.

"And here," Tanner said, swiping a key card and entering a pin, "is the lift down to Q-branch."

The doors slid open to reveal a narrow network of tunnels they navigated in silence until they came upon a room similar to the main floor above them. Though this room was vast and tall, it had large monitors every few meters along the wall, tangled wiring snaking along between desks and along the floor, and at the center of the room, three monitors set up before him, stood a thin man with a mop of black hair gently curling along the crisp collar of his dress shirt.

Bond couldn't move. Couldn't _breathe_. He just _knew_. Standing before him at a hip-height desk and wearing an ugly, wrinkled black raincoat was his Voice.

" _If you think I'm ruining my cover after three_ years _in this shithole, you're not nearly as smart as I thought you were, Quartermaster."_

At the familiar growl of 002, Bond's eyes moved automatically to the large screen in the center of the room, currently displaying the agent's vitals and GPS location. Then what the man said caught up to him. _Quartermaster_.

"This command comes from the top, I'm afraid," his Voice replied. "Your identity has been compromised, it is not longer safe for you to remain under cover."

Bond had to work to prevent himself from making a sound, and he was very sure he'd let something show on his face. That _Voice_. That was _his Voice_.

Hearing it spoken aloud for the first time sent gooseflesh along his skin and his heart racing.

" _Have you confirmed I've been burned?"_ 002 pressed.

His Voice sighed, the sound sending chills down Bond's spine. _He'd heard that before._

"No, I cannot say for sure," he replied, fingers flying across the keyboard, bringing up a blur of reports on the second monitor. "But I must inform you, 002," he began, pausing. "There have already been three hits on our men." His Voice was still smooth, professional. But his hands curled into fists and the line of his shoulders tensed.

" _This cover will give us more information than we've ever had on Al Qaida,"_ 002 said slowly after several seconds of silence. _"It's my duty to ensure we get all we can."_ There was silence again for a beat. _"Even if that means risking getting burned."_

The room was silent, quiet respect given to the Double-oh. Bond's eyes were on the Quartermaster, however, physically holding himself back from going to the bowed figure.

"Very well, 002," he said quietly. "I will keep your position on deck at all times. I'll be on the comms for you at any time you find yourself in need of assistance."

" _Thank you, Q."_

Q. It hit Bond then that he didn't even know his Voice's name. He'd spent thirty years with the boy – the man, he reminded himself – in his head, and he'd never even tried to get his Voice's name.

Q turned then to address a bespectacled woman off to his right, and Bond caught his first look at his face.

He was all angles and lines – a prominent cheekbone matching a sharp jaw, adorned with a light dusting of stubble. There were dark circles under his grey-green eyes and a general air of shabbiness that spoke of long days and little time at home. Dark brows furrowed in the center to form a deep V wrinkle that gave Bond the strangest desire to smooth it away. _He was already becoming a damned walking cliché._

His Voice was absolutely breathtaking.

And utterly breakable.

Q's fingers began moving over the keys rapidly, the man still conversing with his co-worker. _His subordinate,_ Bond corrected himself. Because his Voice was the _Quartermaster of MI6._

He wasn't able to fully absorb the information before Tanner stepped forward.

"Quartermaster, let me introduce you to our wayward 007, declared dead nearly two months ago." Bond stiffened as Q turned his eyes to him.

"Q, meet James Bond."

All the air in the room seemed to disappear as grey-green eyes locked onto him, and Bond knew right away that Q _knew_ , just as he had.

His eyes widened in surprise, his mouth dropping open in what would be comical in any other situation. There was a flicker of something bright – a hint of a smile, a slight crinkling of his eyes – and then darkness. Q's face shut down, smoothing over into a bland, disinterested façade.

After a long moment of utter silence, "Go away."

James Bond knew what being shot felt like. Quite intimately, in fact. There shouldn't be any way that two short words could cut through him like a bullet, and yet. Pain.

He recovered quickly, however, never one to back down from a fight.

"Afraid I can't," he replied smoothly, projecting a casual tone he did not feel. "We're under attack, and you're going to need all the help you can get, _Quartermaster_."

Anger flashed in Q's eyes for a moment before settling. "Quite the high opinion of yourself, 007," he said, voice like ice. "I wonder, what _exactly_ have you been doing these past six weeks?"

Cheeky little shit.

"Soul-searching," he replied, imbuing as much dry sarcasm into his voice as possible.

Q's eyebrow twitched. "I wasn't aware there _was_ a soul to search through."

Bond flashed his teeth in a grin, projecting a humor he didn't feel.

"You're right," he said, fixing Q with a penetrating stare. "I have no soul."

He turned before allowing Q to respond, receiving a questioning look from Tanner, and marched back through the maze of tunnels. He reached the lift, nearly broke the plastic covering on the button with his fist, and glared at the doors until they opened and stepped inside.

He then abruptly deflated, his breath leaving his chest with a violent _whoosh_ , and he covered his eyes with a shaking hand.

 _Holy buggering shit._

The lift made it to the ground floor with just enough time for the agent to pull himself together. Then he headed straight to M.

-:-

"He's got to go."

"Bond!" M chastised from her desk, glaring absolute _daggers_ at him from where he had just flung the door to her office open.

He took a deep breath, using his training to lower his heart rate and level out his breathing. He had to keep calm, block the connection. It frustrated him to no end that his Voice had figured out how to do this, and yet he – James Bond—hadn't mastered blocking his own voice.

"He's got to go," he repeated, his tone carefully measured.

M gave him a flat stare. "Dare I ask who?"

Bond clenched his fists. He didn't have his _real name_ to give her.

"The new Quartermaster," he said instead.

She scoffed at him, lowering her gaze back to the paperwork across her desk.

Bond moved to stand in front of her desk. "He's a risk."

"How do you figure, 007?"

He chewed the inside of his cheek.

"He's got a Voice."

M froze. She fixed her icy blue gaze on him, eyes ever-penetrating through his bullshit.

"Not according to his employment records," she said slowly, watching him.

"Records _he_ filled out."

"Records that I am willing to believe unless you can give me a valid reason not to."

Bond glared. "I suppose you won't just take my word for it."

"You would suppose correctly."

They held each other's gaze, neither willing to back down. Finally, he sighed. With a heaviness that surprised even him, he sunk into one of the chairs and covered his face with both hands.

"He's got my Voice."

Silence had never sounded so loud.

"James."

Bond jerked his head up, eying the woman before him with a sliver of surprise.

She was looking at him with something akin to sadness, so subtle that you'd have to know where to look. Bond knew exactly where to look.

"For how long?"

Bond heaved out a breath and leaned back in his chair, fixing M with a flat stare.

"Thirty years."

This whole situation was almost worth the look of utter surprise on M's face. Almost.

"Dear Lord," she breathed.

"If that's who you attribute this soulmate business to, then yes I suppose. Dear Lord, indeed."

The shock was quickly replaced by the unimpressed glare he was so accustomed to.

"You realize you have committed perjury on an official government document?"

Bond scoffed. "Because _that_ is the biggest problem facing me at the moment."

He leaned back again and ran a hand down his face, suddenly feeling every one of his 41 years. _Why am I back here, again?_

"He's the absolute best," M said, bringing Bond's eyes back to meet hers. The blue had lost some of its chill, but he knew there would be no arguing with this woman.

"He has single-handedly brought revolution to our department in the short time he's been employed. He's one of the greatest weapons we have against the enemy we are currently facing," she continued. She looked down then at her paperwork, a frown appearing on her face.

"Times have changed, Bond," she said, meeting his gaze once more. "There are enemies we can't just aim and shoot at. We are now in an age where ghosts walk through our walls within wires and destroy the lives of millions."

"We need the very best to help us move into the new frontier of espionage, and damnit, that man is bloody brilliant."

Bond grimaced, but inside, he couldn't help but preen just a _tiny bit_. His Voice was the youngest Quartermaster in the history of MI6, the very best the country could offer.

 _But that can all fall away in the blink of an eye._

He closed his eye. "We won't be able to touch."

He peaked open one eye after several long seconds without an answer, only to find M watching him with that soft look of sadness again.

"It wouldn't be the worst thing to happen, James," she said quietly. "To have someone."

Anger swelled in his chest and he quickly fought to control it. _Keep calm_.

"At eleven years old, I heard my Voice's very first word," he growled, narrowing his eyes at his companion. " _No one_ hears their Voice that early." M just raised a brow.

"So what sort of bond do you think will come from such a connection?" he continued, exasperated that she didn't seem to get what he was saying.

"It'll be strong, _incredibly_ strong." He stood. "We'll be connected in the deepest way – physically. He'll feel every scrape, every cut, every _gun shot_." He stopped, the words unable to leave his throat around the lump that had formed there. He took a deep breath and continued.

"When I die," he said slowly, meeting her gaze. "You'll be down not only an agent, but a Quartermaster."

M watched him for a moment before looking down to her clasped fingertips.

"There is another option."

"Enlighten me," he quipped, earning himself a _look._

"You could retire."

Bond froze.

"You'd reduce the risk of transferred or phantom injury exponentially, finally give your body a break, and have a chance of actually seeing the next thirty or forty years." Her look was not unkind as she observed him.

And Bond was furious.

"I have worked my _entire life_ to get to where I am today," he hissed, grasping the back of the chair with bone crushing strength. He looked down at his hands – hands he'd honed into the perfect killing machines.

"This was all I ever wanted, and you expect me to just give that up? For what?" He scoffed. "A _little boy_ who might just have been unlucky enough to get stuck with the same freak mutation as me?"

He pushed the chair away. "I've spent nearly fifteen years being shot at, stabbed, strangled, _tortured_ , and left for dead by my own agency, and now I'm going to throw away all that work to what – settle down and play housewife for some kid who's still got _spots?"_

"Bond –"

"No," he said, lowering his voice to a deadly whisper. "If you value anything I've done for you, for this country, you'll send him packing."

Silence reigned for a full minute.

"There was once a time you were willing to give it all up."

Bond lowered his head into his hands. _Damnit._

"You once sent me your resignation, prepared to make a life of your own. A life without gun shots or car-chases or rooftop skirmishes."

His heart twisted in his chest.

"Stop."

"Why then, and not now?" she continued. "Why not now that you've come so far, achieved so much, and have the opportunity to be with someone who –"

"Stop," he snarled, bringing his head up.

"James," she said softly. "He's your soulmate."

He wanted to break something. Anything. He stalked to the other side of the office, as far away from M as possible just in case, tucking his arms tight against his chest.

" _So what_?" he growled. "Having a soulmate hasn't meant anything for thirty years. Why would it matter now?" M frowned.

"Having a soulmate meant nothing as I buried my parents. Then another father. Nor did it seem to matter to _him_ when the same happened." _Because I didn't do anything for him,_ a small part of his mind whispered.

"Hearing his damned Voice didn't take away pain, like in all those _ridiculous_ films," he spat, thinking about his mother's favorite movie and the blind woman who could suddenly see. He scoffed. "Having him in my head didn't make torture any easier, nor did it stop me from sleeping with – and sincerely _enjoying_ – easily a hundred women." _Though it did lead his eyes to wander to the occasional man_.

"Having a soulmate didn't stop the pain when –" he stopped, visions of a red dress swirling in dark water, black hair drifting along hauntingly at the bottom of an elevator shaft. He took a breath.

"It's never mattered," he said quietly, collecting himself. He straightened, forcing his face back to its smooth mask.

M stood slowly and leaned on her hands, head bowed. Finally, she met his now emotionless gaze with resignation in her eyes.

"It's your choice," she said, each word heavy as she said it. "The Quartermaster will stay." Bond's jaw clenched. "You have the opportunity to walk away now." She held his gaze for a long moment, as if waiting for him to take the option.

"If not, I expect to see you tomorrow morning at 0700 sharp to be debriefed, then begin your tests to ensure you're fit for active service." She stood straight and clasped her hands, face smoothed into all business.

"Take the day to decide. Good day, Bond."

He stared at her for another long moment before pushing off the wall and leaving the office.

-:-

At 0701 Bond walked back into the office.

M looked up from her tea and shot him a glare.

"Making a statement, really?" she asked, narrowing her eyes at him.

"Did you expect anything else?"

She paused, contemplating him intensely over the lip of her teacup.

"No," she conceded, sounding weary. "But I had hoped I was wrong."

There wasn't much he could say to that.

"Well," he said finally, looking down and unnecessarily straightening his already impeccable tie. "I suppose I have to disappoint you at least once."

He met her eyes again with a smirk he didn't try very hard to fake.

-:-

Bond placed both hands on the warm tiles of the MI6 locker room shower and let out a shuddering breath.

"Fuck."

He was a mess, and he absolutely knew it. _So does everyone else_. His body ached, his right arm quivering just to keep it held up to support him against the wall. He clenched his jaw and held his arm there, _daring_ it to give out on him.

It held, but barely. _Just like my sanity._

 _Skyfall._

His heart had pounded just thinking about it, and he'd found himself wrestling with a flurry of emotions.

" _Done."_

Bond pushed off the wall, a low groan escaping him, and watched the blood swirl in the water.

 _That bullet better be damn worth it_ , he thought, grimacing as he rolled his shoulder and glared at the scattering of bullet fragments he'd pulled from the wound.

After toweling off and changing into simple jeans and a jumper, Bond made his way down to Q-branch, the fragments carefully enclosed in an evidence bag.

Shrugging off the oh-so-small-and-regularly-ignored voice of reason telling him to bugger off home, James Bond stepped into the lift and pressed the button for Q level. Because he had a reputation of being a masochist, and he sure as hell was living up to it.

The doors slid open and he made his way soundlessly through the corridors until they opened up to reveal the main level of Q-branch.

Just as he'd thought, there was only a solitary person on the floor, back to the entryway and eyes glued to the screens before him.

There was a grace in the slope of his pale neck and the messy swirl of dark hair curling lightly at the tips. His frame was now on display, his jacket cast aside to reveal a simple brown jumper. His shoulders were wide, but well proportioned to his thin hips and long legs. Surrounded by the light blue of monitors, his skin almost glowed in the dark room.

"What do you want, 007?"

Bond quirked his brow, the only outward sign of his surprise. Then he thought about that. _What did he want?_

Q turned to face him, crossing his arms and leaning back against his desk. He met Bond's eyes with his own, his face kept carefully blank. And waited.

Bond held up the small bag. "This needs to be analyzed."

One dark brow lifted. "And you just _had_ to hand-deliver it yourself, now, when everyone else has gone home?"

Bond gave the man his best blasé shrug, then moved to the nearest desk and dropped the small fragments onto it. He met the cold stare of his Quartermaster once more before turning back the way he came.

"007."

Bond turned.

"What did you _really_ want?"

His first instinct would be something along the lines of 'come home with me and I'll _show_ you.' But he pushed that away, and gave the question the serious consideration Q undoubtedly desired.

 _What do I want?_

Bond could be content with very little in his life. Sure, if he could swing it, he'd stay in grand hotels, sleeping and fucking on ridiculously high thread-count sheets. He'd don crisp suits with pressed collars so sharp they could cut a man. He'd drive off in sleek sports cars that could hit 60 mph in 2 seconds.

And yet. He didn't really need any of that. In fact, most often he didn't really even _want_ it.

Standing here in the semi-dark, body aching, head throbbing, and heart twisting as he looked into this man's eyes, he really only wanted one thing.

"Your name."

Q's brows rose, disappearing into his dark locks.

"You don't already know?" he asked.

Responding to a question with a question. Two could play at that game.

"Did you know mine?"

Q watched him quietly for another long moment. Bond's thoughts briefly noted that his stare held the same sort of penetrating, anti-bullshit power that M's had.

"No," he said finally. "I don't think I know anything about you at all."

He turned around again, obviously dismissing Bond, his fingers finding the keyboard again.

 _Which is probably for the best_ , Bond reminded himself, pushing down the niggling of disappointment. He allowed himself to watch Q's back for another moment before turning. He paused at the doorway.

"20th of April, 1979," he said, back still turned to Q. He didn't fancy seeing the young man's face.

"Pardon?" Q replied after a moment, sounding annoyed.

"The day you spoke you first word," Bond answered quietly. "Something I know about you," he finished.

Silence reigned for a long moment.

"Oh."

Bond turned his head to the side and nodded. "Good night, Quartermaster."

-:-


	3. Chapter 3

Bond left M's office with Mallory's 'don't cock it up' playing on repeat in his head.

There was so much more at stake. He'd made the decision to stay at MI6 – really, not much of a choice. This was who James Bond was. It was all he had.

But that meant he would come into contact with his Voice almost every day. And he wasn't allowed to touch him.

 _Don't cock it up._

The lift opened and Bond navigated the tunnels down to Q-branch, reminding himself of all the reasons he'd never wanted a soulmate, and why a soulmate would never want him.

"Ah, 007. Your equipment, if you will."

Q met his gaze briefly before turning to his desk. Bond strode over to him, stopping nearly two meters from his desk. Q noted the distance with an eye-roll.

"Believe me, 007," he said mildly, "I've no intention to be near you in the least."

"A rather novel idea for me, to be sure," Bond replied with his best smirk. Q hummed disinterestedly, sliding a tray down to the far end of his desk, along with an envelope. "A first class ticket to Shanghai," he said, nodding to the envelope. "And your effects."

Bond moved toward it, eying the gun with a practiced eye.

"Walther PPKS 9 millimeter short," Q informed him, eyes still on the computer screen. Bond lifted it from the tray, noting the green lights.

"There's a micro-dermal sensor in the grip," the man continued before Bond could inquire. "It's been coded to your palm print, so only you can fire it." Bond raised a brow at the man, his silence earning him a quick glance of grey-green eyes.

"Less of a random killing machine, and more of a personal statement."

Bond hummed in agreement, hands deftly disassembling the weapon, allowing familiarity and muscle memory take over. After reassembling it, he looked up and caught Q's eyes fixed on his fingers. His eyes flickered away instantly, and Bond felt, utterly ridiculously, that the short glance made heat pool in his stomach.

"And a standard-issued radio transmitter," Q continued after a moment, tone completely unaffected. Bond brought his attention to the small silver radio in the tray.

"Activate it, and it broadcasts your location," he continued as Bond thumbed at the buttons. "Distress signal," Q added unnecessarily.

"A gun," Bond said, holstering the weapon. "And a radio." Q met his unimpressed stare with one of his own. "Not exactly Christmas, is it?"

"Were you expecting an exploding pen?" Q asked dryly. "We don't really go in for that anymore." Bond heard the dig into his age, loud and clear. He wanted to snark out a retort – the damn kid still had _spots_ – but let it go.

He nodded stiffly, turned on his heel, and made for the door.

"Oh, and 007," Q called after him, utterly disinterested. Bond turned. "Do try to return the equipment in one piece."

"I make no promises, Quartermaster," Bond replied, smirking.

"No," Q replied vaguely, turning his back to him. "I wouldn't trust your word even if you did."

Bond clenched his jaw, noting the several surprised looks on the Q-branch minion's face – some even down right frightened. He took a deep, steading breath, and left.

 _Right little shit._

-:-

First Shanghai, then Macau, Bond relishing in the thrill of the chase. The distraction and the distance from HQ gave him the clarity he'd apparently lost.

He had never wanted a soulmate. Not since he'd grown out of his childish sentimentality, that is. He'd push away his Voice and thrown himself into any activity that dulled his connection. He had left behind the child he was in order to become a new man – one that was perfectly adept at serving Queen and Country, the blunt instrument needed to get the job done. And he loved it.

Fast cars and dangerous women. He watched Severine from across the bar, then prowled through the crowd to lean against the bar, eying her form. Full lips, sharp brows, the intoxicating scent of attraction. It was the perfect escape.

-:-

 _A gun, and a radio_ , he thought dryly as helicopters flew overhead, just barely in time. _I'll never hear the end of it_. He allowed his thoughts to wander briefly to how angry he'd make Q when he told the man he'd fed his flashy gun to a giant bloody lizard. Then he smirked.

-:-

"A Komodo dragon, 007, really?"

Sure enough, Q's glare and the small throbbing vein at the man's temple provided Bond with _endless_ entertainment.

"And here, I was _so sure_ you'd appreciate the truly unique story you now have to tell," Bond quipped, sauntering over to lean against the far end of Q's workbench. Q narrowed his eyes.

"You thought wrong," he replied stiffly. "Do you know how much of the budget went into making that weapon?"

"Not in the least," Bond replied easily, reaching out to peruse the papers strewn about the bench.

"Quite a bit, I can assure you."

Bond hummed, ignoring the man.

"Stop that," Q snapped, reaching over.

Bond shot up straight and took a step back from the table, eyes on Q's outstretched hand. Both men were utterly still for a second.

Bond relaxed his stance minimally, admitting to himself that he might have overreacted. He fixed his gaze on Q.

"You're a right deal more arrogant than I had feared if you think for _one second_ I'd want to bond with you," Q hissed, snatching the paper.

Bond narrowed his eyes at the man, checking briefly to ensure they were alone.

"Just taking precautions," he said calmly, trying to keep the emotion from his tone. He wouldn't let this man affect him.

Q snorted. "Believe me, 007, I am quite invested in avoiding all possible contact," Q sniffed, turning away from him again. He couldn't help but feel the sting of rejection, despite the fact that he shared the sentiment.

"Yes, so you've said," Bond growled, annoyance sparking his temper. "No need to continue repeating yourself, I bloody well get it."

"No, I don't think you do," Q shot back, glaring at him. "You don't understand a bloody thing about anything further than your own ego."

Bond kept his face cool and calm, but his fists clenched. "Oh, enlightenment, please, dear _Quartermaster_ ," he sneered, making the title sound like an insult.

"You're such an arrogant prat," Q said, scowling. "You stand there and have the _audacity_ to think I'd want anything to do with the person who has _quite singularly_ made me miserable my entire life?"

The last two words were nearly shouted, echoing off the walls and inside James' mind, and he took an actual step back at the violent swing of emotion he felt.

Q took a deep breath and turned away from him. "Go away, Bond."

James blinked, reigning in his control again. Surprise smoothed away, but guilt quickly took its place.

He'd pondered before – late in the middle of the night – what it would be like to have to hear _his_ Voice. It didn't sound rather appealing. And Q had probably been hearing his Voice since he could remember.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, the words tasting strange in his mouth. He couldn't remember the last time he'd said that, and had actually _meant_ it.

Q scoffed, drawing Bond's attention. "You don't get to just _apologize_ , 007," he said. "You've no idea what to apologize _for_ , so forgive me if I refuse to accept."

Bond scowled. He had actually apologized, and _meant it_ , and the damn kid dared to toss that aside.

"Listen –"

"No," Q snapped, turning back around to face Bond. "I have done nothing but _listen_ to you, and it has never turned out well." His face screwed up in anger and he took a deep breath to steady himself.

"Having you in _my_ head wasn't exactly a walk in the park," Bond quipped, frustration and guilt plastering a nasty smirk on his face.

Q actually snarled at him. "I can't remember a time before I had your utterly vile Voice in my mind," he spat, hand clenched into fists, his whole frame tight. Bond flinched internally.

"Can you even imagine, Bond? Can you possibly even feel a tiny speck of empathy?"

Bond struggled to remain impassive. The damn kid knew _nothing._

"At just four years old, I was mimicking words I'd heard in my head," he said, grinning darkly. "You can imagine my parent's surprise and horror at having a three-year-old who could literally swear like a sailor."

"It wasn't until later that they understood," he continued, clenching his fists. "Their child was a _freak_ ," he spat, gazing down at his feet and taking a breath. James' heart clenched in sorrow.

"I'd wake _screaming_ at night, terrible nightmares of death and destruction," he continued, taking off his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. "And they'd fight over who had caused this, who had sinned so badly in their life that God would punish them with a freakish child."

"Q –" James began, stepping forward. The man held out his hand firmly, telling him to stop.

"It wasn't long after that when they left."

James froze, a horrible sense of dismay filling him.

"At twelve, my parents packed up, took me and all my belongs, and left me at Christian Orphanage," Q said softly. "'Maybe God can cleanse his soul,' they said."

James ached to go to him.

Silence reigned for a long moment, only broken by Q's steadying breaths.

"So if you're going to apologize, Bond," he finally continued, looking up at James with flat eyes. "Don't do it just to make yourself feel better. Because you don't know half the things you should be apologizing for."

"And if I want to know?" James asked, taking a step forward. "If I want to find out all the pains I've caused you?"

Q took a deliberate step back.

"Then you'll be disappointed," he said coldly. "I've taken care of myself just _fine_ without you all these years, and I will continue to do so."

James watched the man quietly before realizing he was looking for a sign of uncertainty. He wanted to feel surprised at this, but found he couldn't. He wanted to know this man. He wanted to unravel the mysteries of the quiet voice inside his head.

But he couldn't. He had given it all up, had pushed the man away when he was just a boy, innocent and hurting. His boy didn't deserve more pain – because that was all James could give him. Pain and heartbreak.

Straightening his shoulders and steeling his gaze, Bond nodded sharply and turned on his heel.

He didn't look back until he reached the lifts. He met grey-green eyes for a second before the doors slid shut.

Then he was alone.

-:-


	4. Chapter 4

Bond's shoes clapped quietly as he moved through the tunnels of the detention level, his thoughts a web of uncertainty. He and Silva weren't all that different – M had given them both up for the sake of a mission. For the greater good.

James had thought he had accepted that, had thought he wasn't bothered by it – it's the job. His stomach churned in anxiety, surprising him. He didn't realize he was so worked up.

He froze. This wasn't _his_ anxiety.

He turned sharply and headed to the lift, punching the button down to Q-branch central command. Back to Q.

James opened the door silently, his eyes trained on the slim form facing the large screen, fingers flying over the keyboard.

Q's back and shoulders were stiff, his elbows clenched tightly to his side, and a swirling matrix of code danced tauntingly on the projected screen.

Not knowing exactly _why_ , James moved forward, following instincts he couldn't quite place. He stopped just to Q's right and outside the man's eye line, and watched.

Slowly, the line of Q's shoulders relaxed minutely. Rather fascinated, Bond stood quite still and did something he couldn't ever remember doing.

He filled his mind with the only pieces of comfort he knew – the smooth feel and rich smell of leather, the scalding cascade of water across sore shoulders, silk sheets moving over skin – and cleared his thoughts of everything else.

Q's shoulders finally unglued from his ears and relaxed, his fingers slowing to a less frenzied pace, and he sighed.

James could quite describe why that felt like such an accomplishment.

"It's a polymorphic engine," Q announced suddenly. He turned his head to the side a fraction, eyes never leaving the screen. "To mutate the code," he continued. Bond let his eyes trace the corner of a sharp cheekbone for a half second longer before turning his attention back to the screen.

"What is it doing?" he asked.

"Whenever I try to gain access, it changes," Q replied, frowning. "It's like solving a Rubik's cube that's fighting back," he added, grumbling.

Bond scanned the large screen, watching as Q somehow maneuvered around this word that was utterly alien to Bond.

Until, "Stop," he said, eyes narrowing. "Go in on that."

GRANBOROUGH aligned perfectly on revolving code, and he suddenly just _knew_.

"Granborough," he said, moving forward closer to the screen. "Granborough road," he continued as no one responded, looking back to Q's impassive face. "It's an old tube station on the metropolitan line. It's been closed for years." He returned his gaze to the screen, then got an idea. "Use that as a key," he said, turning back to Q.

The man eyed him for a moment before nodding stiffly, typing in the letters. Immediately, the matrix began to change. Q's brows went up and his entire body shifted into excitement. Bond couldn't help but watch the transformation.

"It's a map," Q announced, his fingers flying over the keys, body buzzing with success. Bond finally tore his gaze from the man to look back at the screen.

"It's London," he said slowly, eyes noting the familiar lines. The hairs on the back of his neck rose in warning. "Subterranean London."

With a quiet hiss, two security doors opened just behind Q. Bond froze. Shit, he thought, then tore off back toward the lifts.

"What's going on?" Q shouted at his back. "Why are the doors opening?"

"Shit," Bond hissed as he skidded to a halt inside the lift, punching at the number for the detainment level. "Shit, shit, _shit_."

He found no happiness at the echoing of the same curses as his Voice finally realized the trap.

"Shit."

-:-

The long drive north toward his homeland was punctuated only by the occasional whisper of his Voice as Q worked steadily to cover their path.

"Do you regret your return?"

Bond looked over at M with a raised brow, surprised. She simply leveled him a bland look, just daring him to say something about the uncharacteristic sentiment.

"No," he admitted quietly, turning back to the road.

"Good."

He smiled.

-:-

At 41 years old, James Bond held the body of the last person in the world he had ever loved.

"I suppose it's too late," M whispered, voice thin and weak, "to make a run for it?"

He hated himself for not being able to hold back a tear.

"Well, I'm game if you are," he forced out, trying to keep his tone steady amid the crushing despair he felt. She wasn't going to make it. They both knew that.

M fought for each breath, the gasping sound tearing at Bond's chest. Her eyes found his, and small spark of fondness lit up her face for a moment.

"I did get one thing right," she whispered.

His heart clenched as Olivia Mansfield let out a one final breath before her glazed over. His own breath stuttered and another tear fell down his face silently. Gone.

With a shaking hand, Bond shut her eyes and leaned over her.

"Come on, son," Kincaid said gently after a long moment, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Le's get her outside."

James wasn't sure he could stand. His body throbbed and his throat ached from the freezing water he'd swallowed.

"No," he said, nearly wincing as the word broke as it left his mouth, laden with pain and loss.

"You don' want to leave her here with 'im, do you?" Kincaid asked, jerking his head toward the dead body of Silva.

Anger flared in James chest, a mere flutter against the wall of utter sorrow threatening to engulf him. He steeled his will and gathered his strength, and stood, lifting M with him.

"I'll carry her," he said, shaking his head at Kincaid's outstretched arms.

Every step ached, but James strode resolutely out of the small chapel and out into the field. The glow from the fires lit up the desolate land, and he couldn't help but wonder if _this_ was what his soul looked like.

Burned, broken, dry – a mere shadow of what could have been. His breathed hitched.

" _I'm sorry, James."_

James froze, nearly dropping M's small body in surprise.

"Q?" he asked, actually wincing at the pathetic sound of his voice.

" _We're coming, James. You aren't alone."_

Bond sunk down to his knees, then sat back, laying M down and holding her head.

As he waited, he couldn't help but realize Q had always tried to comfort him. But James hadn't let him. Worse, James had never returned it.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, lowering his head to rest atop M's. He wasn't sure who he was apologizing to.


End file.
